When Wonder Woman swooped onto the scene in 1942, with her jet-black waves, eagle-crested, stay-put bustier, and star-spangled (pre-hot-pants) skirt, she was as girlish as Betty Grable—and tougher than Rosie the Riveter. Unlike that crisis-magnet Lois Lane, Wonder Woman certainly did not need a man to fix things. Nor did her fellow crime-fighting megababes. "Sheena, Queen of the Jungle was probably first—she didn't actually have superpowers, but she was tough, independent, and ruled the roost," says comics historian Ron Goulart, who is quick to point out that, in the title of his new book, Good Girl Art (Hermes Press), good modifies art—it doesn't classify the dames. "By the early '40s, you had the Phantom Lady, Lady Luck, the Black Cat, plus a couple dozen characters—Madame Satan, the Empress of Doom, Elektra—who were on the wrong side of the law."

Yet, in the past four months of superhero mania, in which we propelled Iron Man to box office history; met the second Incredible Hulk in as many years; revisited Batman for the nth time; and even found the time to take in Will Smith's unlikely, unlikable Hancock and that whippersnapper Speed Racer—there was nary a Black Cat or an Empress of Doom in sight. It can't be because female characters are less inspiring: When Wonder Woman herself, aka Lynda Carter—the one true love of my pre-K life—arrived at the spring opening of the Metropolitan Museum of Art Costume Institute's "Superheroes: Fashion and Fantasy" exhibit, some 29 years after her show was canceled, the mere sight of her sent gleeful shivers up my 31-year-old spine. Hollywood, I've got to know: Where are you hiding the superwomen?

Tinseltown may not be banking on the superheroine, but the fashion universe is virtually crying out for one, thanks to its renewed fascination with the '80s power woman. Shoulder pads, electric colors, bold tights, sharp silhouettes, leather leggings, zippers galore? They're baaaack. And the look is even more fearsome from the neck up: On Dior's fall runway, hair was high enough to scrape the ceiling; at YSL, the lipstick was as cauldron black as any evil temptress could desire (and the monkish noir wigs, so sleek and robotic on skinny, nine-foot-tall models, seemed perfect for a stoogey sidekick). The fashion-comics connection may not be so far-fetched, after all: Which virtue do both worlds prize above all others? Transformation—the faster, the better.

All of which got me thinking: Confronted with a dearth of super-females, what would Wonder Woman do? Wait for some studio mogul to serve up a CGI-enhanced, multiplex-approved heroine? Or just get out there and be one herself? I set out to do just that at Comic-Con, the vast stomping ground for comic books and strips, graphic novels, animation and video games, and the latest corner of the comic fanatic's once clandestine universe to go semimainstream. "Comic-Con used to be just about hard-core enthusiasts," says Joe Quesada, editor-in-chief of Marvel Comics, home of both Iron Man and The Hulk. "Now it's a huge entertainment monolith."

As such, "cons" have become a savvy place to launch new trailers and announce top-secret projects. But historically, the main attraction was "artists' alley," a warren of tables where writers and illustrators sign autographs and meet their adoring public (one comics blogger recently wrote that, for fans, artists' alley is like "having Cecil B. DeMille, Alfred Hitchcock, and Steven Spielberg just waiting for someone to chat with"). Last year, 125,000 fans stormed the thirty-eighth annual San Diego Comic-Con. In April, at New York City's third annual offshoot, attendance hit 60,000, flooding the Jacob Javits Convention Center—otherwise known as the seventh circle of hell—with Storm Troopers, Fantastic Four members, Jokers, Poison Ivys, countless Princess Leias, two Uglydolls the size of Mini Coopers, plenty of pimply teens, and a couple of beautifully coifed, slightly bewildered novices: Zapgirl and the Nudinator (that is, myself and my fellow ELLE-ite Malina Joseph).

See, you don't just drop by Comic-Con. You dress for it. "The costumes are no joke," says Jill Pantozzi, a New Jersey–based radio DJ who blogs about, as she puts it, "basically anything dorky—comics, movies, video games," at Thenerdybird.com. Pantozzi's alter ego of the moment is Zatanna, a DC Comics character who dresses like a 1940s magician's assistant: tails, top hat, bow tie, fishnets. Pantozzi even dyed her naturally red hair black for the event. "I thought, Why wear a wig? Just dye it!" she says. Even so, Pantozzi is a lightweight; the most serious dressing—cos-play, short for "costume play"—is borrowed, like so many extreme sartorial practices, from Japanese subculture. For cosplayers, the idea is to literally become a character, down to the last detail (as much as such a thing is possible).

Malina and I may not have been cosplayers just yet, but we weren't mere dabblers, either; we wanted authenticity—though, without serious cosmetic surgery, I wasn't sure exactly how we were going to accomplish that. "For the record," states the opening page of our new guidebook, How to Draw Those Bodacious Bad Babes (Renaissance Books), "`bodacious' means unmistakable, remarkable, and/or noteworthy. It does not necessarily mean big-breasted." Phew. As for the rest of our look, the book's authors seem to have forgotten Catwoman, that morally ambivalent feline forever torn between playing the aggressor and the avenger. They give us two clear-cut options: We can be Good Girls, or we can be Bad Girls. The former appear to be peppy gals-next-door, if you happen to live next to Hugh Hefner: soft, blondish hairdos, cheerleader carriage, pastel eye shadow, and "warm, soft, square" facial features. Baddies, on the other hand, assume menacing, WWF-influenced poses (fists clenched, midlunge); sport unkempt, wildfire hair; and possess enormous, perfect-circle breasts and "sharper, more angled, glaring features," with slanty brows and cheekbones that create "a feeling of impending anger."

Bad sounded good to us, and when the day arrives, Malina outdoes herself: seven-inch, putty-color Louis Vuitton platform boots, plus a skin-tone unitard—a minimalist take on the superhero imperative—and a capeish wisp of brown chiffon, both straight off the fall runway of Belgian intellectual Martin Margiela. A Blade Runner–esque row of pointy, flat-ironed ponytails, smoky eyes, a fuchsia snarl, and the prescribed mean-girl brows transform her into the Nudinator, the kind of sorceress who could torch a foe's clothes in a single glance.

Despite my wickedest intentions, however, my own Zapgirl ends up seeming not just "good" but sickly sweet. That's what happens, I suppose, when you mix a teal Lisa Perry pop-art Zap! dress, highlighter-pink tights, silver lamé gloves, a fluorescent orange headband (sadly, mine lacked boomerang powers), and peekaboo blue booties—plus red lips, winged-out eyeliner, and a helmet of Grand Ole Opry hair. It's hard to ooze malice and evil when you look like you popped out of a box of Smarties.

Still, the ensemble does the trick, giving me the same "kapow!" jolt that once made me refuse to remove my Underoos. Suddenly, my hands find a jaunty, take-charge position on my hips, my shoulders square themselves, and I feel a distinct urge to hop in my invisible taxi and save someone.

But when we hit the Javits' gaping maw of an entrance, the Nudinator puts a black-patent-clad vise grip on my bicep. "Wait. What the hell are we doing?" she gasps. "We look like morons!" I look down. Did I really leave the house in this? In broad daylight?

Inside, however, doubts evaporate. Comic-Con is an alternate universe of instant celebrity—and, relatively speaking, our attire is tame. For the next three hours, people shout, "Zapgirl! Yeah!" and "You guys are awesome!" TV microphones are poked in our faces; the parents of shy adolescents push their reluctant progeny into photos with us. "What are your powers?" they ask. "Which galaxy do you come from?" It's like being Minnie Mouse at Disney World, or, better yet, Angelina at Cannes—beloved, in demand, pulled in all directions, irresistible.

This is not necessarily the result of our innate awesomeness (though it's safe to say Malina is the only person on the premises in Margiela). All women get attention at Comic-Con. Like comics themselves, the nature of this intense regard is by turns empowering and objectifying. Strolling aisles plastered with drawings of pneumatic blonds in compromising positions (some astride large weapons) is odd, to say the least. But our outfits—midriff concealing, imaginative, quirky—provide a shield of invincibility (in fact, in superhero mode, even the cute, geeky-cool guys in the crowd—and there are many—fail to distract us from our mission). How would it feel, on the other hand, to be the woman in black pleather hot pants and a red string bikini top who gives my dress a thumbs-up but mouths, "Where's your gun?"

Strange acts of exhibitionism: just one more thing Comic-Con has in common with the fashion world. The moment I switch to flats and wipe off my topmost layer of makeup (instantly becoming just another schlumpy bystander—no more photos, no leering glances), I discover another. Had toe-crushing heels been the secret source of my power all along? Perhaps, but that's okay by me. Being a superheroine—even a minor one—is superexhausting.